


Drinks and Dragons

by scatteringmyashes



Series: Athos/D'Artagnan AU Fest [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6790198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos was once a noble creature, well-respected by his peers, his friends, and even the strangers who passed him in the street. He fell in love, ruined his life, and moved away from the cold of the familiar, choosing to embrace a new life in the city. Things are different and that is what he loves, but Athos likes the predictability of it all. The way he knows what will happen, how to interact, the tempo and rhythm of life. </p><p>And then d'Artagnan walks into The Triple Three coffee shop and cafe.</p><p>In other words: the coffee shop AU in which everyone is a magical creature and everyone knows things before Athos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be posted a few weeks ago but April was just a rough month and I wasn't able to get this done in time. My apologies. It also kept getting longer and longer and at this point I've given up keeping my fics short so now there's this massive thing. And it's just chapter one. So. Yeah. 
> 
> The current plan is to have this finished and another story up this month and with school being done it should proceed on time. I have a ton of prompts left and I haven't actually even watched s3 yet which I know will get me back into the fandom a lot so don't worry, I have no plans on stopping.
> 
> Anyways, this was a prompt/request from Sigmund so thank them! The original prompt was for just a coffee shop AU and this is nothing like what they were probably thinking, so I hope it's still ok. 
> 
> If you have any prompts/requests that you want me to check out, send me a message here or PM me on tumblr [here!](http://thepoetofjustice.tumblr.com/)

He was once a well-respected person. Those who knew him looked up to Athos as a model citizen, with old money and older status that wasn’t flaunted like some of the more hot-blooded creatures. Now, of course, things were much different. For one, he was no longer Olivier de la Phénix, one of the last phoenixes left in the whole word. He was Athos. Just Athos. Even Treville, his boss, knew better than to refer to him by anything else. 

Second, he no longer lived in the more traditional parts of the nation, where bloodlines and history was just as important as the present. Every bit of Athos’ reputation was from him and him alone, not his parents or grandparents or some distant cousin who had once met the king of Pern or some other bizarre country. He didn’t have to worry about people having preconceived notions about him and, well, that was a blessing.

Third, Athos spent less of his time drinking alcohol and more of his time drinking caffeine. Or, at the very least, serving it. 

“Hello and welcome to The Triple Three, what can I get for you?” Athos asked the pixie who made up the entire line. The man’s wings fluttered and scattered glitter across the floor and it took all of Athos’ patience to not roll his eyes. It was no one’s fault that fae tended to leave a mess wherever they went. That didn’t stop it from being a giant pain in the ass to clean up after them.

The pixie ordered some sugary monstrosity that made Athos gag just thinking about it, but he rung the order up and passed the cup off to Aramis. “Thanks,” the pixie told Aramis with a wink, leaving a dollar as a tip. Since there was no one else in line, Athos was able to turn away from the door and give Aramis his most unimpressed look.

Of course, Aramis being Aramis he just laughed and swung his hips a little extra as he walked back and forth. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Athos asked. Then, in an Aramis imitation that was only so good after years of practice, he added, “Yes, and he’s coming in at two for his shift.” Aramis rolled his eyes but he was smiling as he snapped a towel at Athos. 

“He’s coming in at one, actually. He and I are going to eat lunch together.” Aramis poured the rest of the drink that had been ordered and set it on the counter. There was no reason to call out a name since the pixie had been watching Aramis with almost hungry eyes for the entire time. “Enjoy your coffee,” Aramis told him. Athos felt the sudden need to step back, to give Aramis more room, and scuttled over to the display case to see how many blueberry muffins were left.

He didn’t look away from the pastries until the pixie, now uninterested in Aramis, closed the door and left. 

Athos felt a degree of deja vu as he shot Aramis an unamused glare. The incubus just shrugged. This was not the first time he had used some magic around the shop and it would not be the last. At least this time it was not focused on getting a particularly persistent centaur to lay off Aramis. That had been a mess to clean up after.

Now The Triple Three, one of many coffee shops in the city, was empty except for an elf who was either in college for her undergrad or was getting her fifth phD in some obscure field. It was impossible to tell with elves. A soft tune played over the speakers, one of Aramis’ favorite bands that seemed intent on bringing back the harp or lyre or something stringed and old as a mainstream instrument. 

Athos supposed he couldn’t complain too much. It was better than when Aramis was in a sour mood and decided to tap into his angsty teenaged years and played nothing but angry screaming by a now-defunct band made up of erinyes. Those days always resulted in hearing loss that even Athos’ regeneration took time to heal and, more often than not, Aramis wanting to get ridiculously drunk that night. 

At least Porthos dealt with that; the two were not privy to the details of Athos’ abstinence from alcohol, only that it was something he did not compromise on regardless of the holiday or other occasions and that he never spoke about it. And, for all intents and purposes, Athos was more than happy to keep it that way. The others were his friends, certainly, but he did not need them to know every detail about his life in order to trust them. They felt the same way, or at least that’s what they said.

Athos was inclined to trust them, if for no other reason than the fact that they had known each other for years now and still enjoyed and actively sought out his company. Considering that the disposition Athos possessed could be described entirely by the adjective “moody” and its various synonyms, he treasured what friendship he did get. It was not that Athos was social. Quite the opposite, in fact; he loathed people more often than not. Rather, when he did feel close to someone then he tended to seek their presence out as much as he could handle.

Which wasn’t much, especially not compared to what some phoenixes were capable of, but still. He liked Aramis’ and Porthos’ company most of the time.

The door to the shop opened and the little brass bell hanging on the frame rung. Flea, who was not at all related to the insect her nickname came from, and Samara entered, the latter chattering about some politician who was involved in mass scandal over a few comments about creatures. 

“Hello,” Athos called out. “Porthos isn’t here for another four hours, but you’re welcome to wait.” Flea rolled her eyes at the assumption and seemed to prance up to the counter, leaning forward and staring right up at Athos. He was not close to either woman, but they were friends with Porthos so he tolerated them more so than he would others. “Pleasure to see you too, Flea. What may I get you and your lovely lady?” 

That earned what could only be described as a giggle from Flea. They all knew that Samara was no one’s except her own. Flea, too, but she acted less independent on principle. It was a gnome thing or something. Athos wasn’t quite sure.

“I’ll have a double shot espresso with whipped cream. Samara?” Flea’s words were punctuated with a slight twitch of her ears. They were pointed, like Aramis’, but no one would ever mistake her for an incubus. Not because she was not attractive but because, at not quite five feet, she was nowhere tall enough to be anything other than a gnome or a hobbit.

The habit for mischief involving shiny objects gave her away as a gnome. She wasn’t nearly obsessed enough about food to be a hobbit. 

“I’ll have a muffin. Surprise me on the type,” Samara replied, going to sit in a corner. It was strange to see the afrit without a book in her hands but Athos’ gaze did not linger past a respectful nod. As two beings of fire, simply standing too close to one another increased the chances of things spontaneously bursting into flame and that would be awkward to explain to Treville. 

Besides, they were not close and Athos could never tell where he stood with her. Mild mannered or not, if she was angered it would be a serious challenge to calm her down or get her under control. Athos had no wishes to fight her for any reason.

Flea gave him a punch to the arm to get his attention and Athos did his best to look offended. There was definitely a certain amount of difficulty taking her seriously, considering that he was almost one hundred times her age. Phoenix rebirth, regeneration and all that. 

She, of course, didn’t mistake his expression for anything other than the bemusement he was feeling and made a point of handing the cash to Aramis. “At least you take me seriously,” she bemoaned. Aramis gave her an elaborate bow and pushed Athos out from behind the register. Athos didn’t have time to argue, Aramis wasting no time before flashing him a disarming smile that was so heavy with magic that the air seemed to sag with it.

“Why don’t you prepare Flea’s drink? I can man the register for a while,” Aramis suggested. Athos rolled his eyes, not impressed at all, but went to do what his coworker wanted. After all, Aramis would find a way to gossip with Flea one way or another and there was nothing Athos could do about that. This way at least things would still get done. Still, Athos couldn’t help but be a little vindictive and got Samara her muffin first, putting it on a plate and walking over to give it to her.

She gave him a small smile and took it from him, their hands brushing. Athos felt the familiar rush of warmth that another creature of fire brought him. It was not that they were rare, but rather that not many chose to live in a place where it rained more often than not and foggy skies were considered the norm. Samara had never mentioned why she stayed in the country, her accent placing her far from The Triple Three’s zip code, but Athos couldn’t judge.

Besides, Samara was one of the better customers, even if Flea, her constant companion, seemed to make it her personal mission to get Athos to laugh. She hadn’t succeeded in their five year acquaintanceship. Athos doubted she would anytime soon.

“What does bring you here?” Athos heard Aramis asking as he slipped back behind the counter to make Flea’s coffee. “Porthos will be heartbroken if you leave before he’s back,” the incubus added almost as an afterthought. 

“We’re actually meeting Constance here. She wants us to meet a new friend who just arrived in town and suggested here since it’s a central location.” Flea’s voice was not squeaky like many gnomes had the tendency to possess, which Athos was forever thankful for. He would have long since torn off his ears if he was forced to listen to high-pitched conversations during his off time as well as while working at the shop.

Of course, then a group of three gnomes walked in. Athos held back a sigh. They weren’t quite in a rush hour, but within a few hours it would be bustling and it would take every single ounce of self control for Athos not to just dump a pot of coffee over some rude fae’s head or spit in a seelie’s tea. He had never acted on any of his numerous urges and for that he was convinced Treville should give him a raise.

“Hello and welcome to The Triple Three. What can I help you lovely beings with?” Aramis just turned on the charm, leaning against the counter and grinning. He was made for customer service jobs with his good nature and easy temperament. It had taken him a month before Athos would agree to interact with him outside of work and three before Athos initiated anything. Now, of course, it was hard to imagine what Athos would have done if he hadn’t gotten the job at the little coffee shop. 

“Flea, your coffee.” Athos motioned to the beverage in question and then cracked his knuckles, ready to make three thirsty gnomes their drinks. He got as far as taking the orders from Aramis, glancing over the list when the bell over the door rang once more. On instinct, Athos glanced over, seeing Constance and expecting her friend to be some red-faced cherub or other young, feminine creature.

Not six feet of bronzed skin, long brown hair, and sharp eagle eyes. Athos found himself staring which was the only reason he saw the stranger just about trip over thin air. His arms went flying and he almost hit Constance in the face. The siren rolled her eyes and helped balance him, patting him on the back as if this was a regular occurrence. 

Athos didn’t miss the way the stranger blushed, a dark maroon tinge appearing on his face. The man seemed almost ageless, as if his body hadn’t quite decided how old it was. The more he looked, though, the more apparent it became that this was a young creature. There was an uncertainty in the way he carried himself, a hesitation as he spoke, and a sense of anxiety as his eyes glanced from side to side. If he was more than thirty years old, Athos would eat his favorite scarf.

Aramis nudged Athos with his elbow. “Do you need help there?” The incubus teased. Athos rolled his eyes and went back to doing his job. He was not some young, impressionable nymph who thought every creature he saw was wonderful and full of beauty. 

No, Athos was an old, stone-hearted beast who had enough room in his heart only for good coffee and monochromatic scarves. 

He shook his head and settled in to make a few drinks, doing his damndest to not pay attention to the conversation that was happening behind him. Of course since Aramis had caught Athos staring at the stranger, he made it his personal duty to get as much information out of Constance as possible. Boundaries did not exist for Aramis. Athos had yet to decide if that was a trait all incubi possessed or if it was uniquely Aramis. 

“Who’s this? You don’t look like you’re from around here,” Aramis started with. Athos didn’t have to look to know that the full power of Aramis’ charm was up. He knew because, despite how hard he tried, he could not force himself to stop paying attention to the conversation. He had no doubt that the rest of the shop was currently having the same struggle though, glancing at Samara, she seemed unamused and unaffected.

There was the unmistakable sound of Constance hitting Aramis in the arm. “Stop that,” she hissed, though she did nothing to keep her voice down. “You know that doesn’t work on me and d’Artagnan is new. He needs friends, not… You know.” 

Athos could see, from the corner of his eyes, Aramis waggle his eyebrows and get a glare for his trouble. Constance, bless her heart and soul, tolerated far more trouble than the trio was really worth. Athos was hardly innocent, though he liked to consider himself the least amount of difficulty to deal with. Porthos was fine unless he was drunk or feeling particularly rowdy. For the most part, though, he was mostly just an enabler for Aramis. There was no question that Aramis was the source of most problems for everyone he knew. 

It was loveable. Almost. 

“Vanilla bean macchiato with soy milk,” Athos called out, not bothering to wait for the gnome in question to pick it up. He hesitated as he walked by the cash register, nodding at Constance. “If he’s giving you any trouble, please tell me. We’re always looking for a reason to fire him.” The look on the stranger’s -- d’Artagnan’s -- face made Athos’ comment completely worth the expression of mock betrayal that Aramis adopted.

“Hello, Athos. Glad to see you’re doing well.” Athos liked to say that he had developed a tolerance for Constance’s voice, but something still hit him like a truck as he looked into d’Artagnan’s eyes. The brown seemed to suck him in, drowning him. He licked his lips and swallowed, struggling to remember words and grammar and manners and things. “This is d’Artagnan. He’s my tennant, actually,” Constance added. He registered her words but it took him a moment to understand them. 

It made sense, of course. Constance ran a small halfway home type of establishment for creatures who wanted to escape some previous life and needed somewhere safe to rest in the city until they left or, as many did, found a more permanent place to live. He knew that Aramis lived there for several months and Athos had no doubt that he would have stayed in such a place if not for his general good fortune. Literally; he was rich. 

Not that any of his friends knew that. 

Some muscle memory remained and Athos, back in the present, stuck his hand out. D’Artagnan’s grip was strong, not at all hesitant, and his hands were surprisingly rough, as if Athos was holding onto sandpaper. He burned hot, too, enough so that Athos did not feel the usual jolt of cold that came with touching non-fire beings. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” d’Artagnan told Athos. 

They did not break eye contact even as Athos recovered and replied with “Likewise.” The word slipped out and took more effort than it should have, draining him of all higher brain capacity in a single moment.

He swallowed, struggling to think of what else to say. Their hands were still together. D’Artagnan’s palms were warm, a comfortable fit in Athos’ and he couldn’t help but want to never let go. This was nice, familiar and yet nothing like he had ever experienced before. Athos had been married and fallen in love and stayed in love but somehow this was more than he could comprehend. 

He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

After a moment, Aramis coughed and left to make drinks for the gnomes who were looking more and more disgruntled as the seconds ticked by. Flea, who had been watching from her table, seized the opportunity to shout Constance’s name and wave. 

“Oh, they’re over there. I knew they wouldn’t be late.” Constance stepped forward and d’Artagnan made to follow. “Stay here and wait for our coffee?” She asked him, not waiting for an answer. Athos saw the way d’Artagnan looked at her and snapped out of his own daze. 

It was clear that the young man was smitten with Constance, which was an unfortunate side effect of being a siren. Like an incubus, she attracted attention every time she opened her mouth. Unlike one, though, she could not repel people. Having her and Aramis in the same room was always a recipe for trouble. Which, of course, begged the question of why Constance thought it would be a good idea to get coffee at the place where Aramis worked more days than he didn’t.

Regardless, no doubt d’Artagnan had fallen under her spell and would walk around like a lovesick puppy for a few days, or however long it was until he developed resistance. Athos couldn’t help but hope that it was a sooner rather than later situation. He wasn’t sure why; he credited it to a drop in his resistance to Constance, making him irrationally attracted to her. The two hadn’t spoken in a while after all, and she was unable to control herself like Aramis could.

Again, the disadvantages of being a siren.

“I’ll make your orders,” Athos told d’Artagnan before slipping away to join Aramis at the coffee machines. “Must you and Constance do that thing every time? It’s distracting,” he complained. Aramis shrugged.

“It’s instinctual. Not my fault if you can’t resist this.” Aramis didn’t add any of his magic so Athos had to actively resist the urge to punch him. 

Treville always told them off for any violence or any other ‘offensive action’ while on the clock. Just because they were all friends or more outside of work did not give them permission to curse, flirt, kiss, or fight while in the shop period. The front of the house and the back of the house were off-limits, especially after The Great Whipped Cream Incident of 2014.

For Athos, that mostly meant keeping his urges to set Aramis, Porthos, or any customers on fire in check. Or, failing that, to at least not act on them. “Just focus on making coffee and not getting numbers,” Athos murmured as he struggled to put the right nozzle on a container. Aramis laughed.

“Why, do you want a shot with d’Artagnan?” Athos didn’t justify that with a response and this time he did punch Aramis in the arm, hard enough to make it hurt but not enough to leave a mark.

Aramis’ obnoxious laughter followed him for the rest of the shift.

 

 

 

The next time d’Artagnan came to the cafe, Athos was swamped. Porthos was running the cash register with ease, chatting when he could, but for the most part they were a half-broken machine that was missing parts and wasn’t properly oiled. The main problem was that Treville, who usually helped out during rushes, was trapped in the back yelling at their supplier for failing to include enough coffee stir sticks. It was the risk that came with running the shop and working the front, but Athos wouldn’t have any other boss. 

“Hot chocolate with soy milk,” Athos shouted over the chatter that rose up and over the counter. He spotted d’Artagnan out of the corner of one eye and gave him a nod. It was too busy to stop and talk, though, and Athos went back to making drinks and doing his best not to accidentally poison anyone.

After a group of bossy harpies got their order, Athos let himself take a breather and glanced over the cafe. Almost every flat surface and seat was taken. If there wasn’t a college student studying with headphones on, there was a businessperson in a suit that cost more than the rent on Athos’ apartment. Fridays were always busy, but Friday afternoons were downright madhouses. 

Then again, if it kept Athos with a roof over his head and food in his stomach then he couldn’t complain much. 

“Can I have a muffin with that?” D’Artagnan’s voice was unmistakable even in the din, though Athos convinced himself that it was just because of his association with Constance. Was d’Artagnan a siren? That would explain a lot. But no, d’Artagnan didn’t have the same edge in his words and there was no possibility he had more control than Constance. Then again, it wasn’t like Athos was an expert on sirens. For all he knew, d’Artagnan was from some sub-set of the family.

“Anything else for you?” Porthos asked, handing a cup to Athos. It had d’Artagnan’s order scribbled on it and Athos was surprised to see that it was a rather simple lavender tea. Not, as Athos had assumed, some heart attack in a cup. That was the popular drink for people who appeared to be d’Artagnan’s age or had serious sweet teeth. 

He said just about as much, loud enough for d’Artagnan to hear. The young man blushed, that maroon blush coloring his face. “We don’t have so many options where I’m from,” he admitted. “The tea reminds me of home.” Athos, who did everything in his power to forget his past, couldn’t relate but he nodded anyway. 

He turned to make the tea, able to relax and calm his beating heart now that the rush was manageable. 

A moment later, the door opened and Constance ran in. “I am so sorry,” she gasped, taking off her wool hat. Her russet hair stuck up in strange places and Athos couldn’t help but feel his hand twitch, the urge to fix the mess hitting him.

D’Artagnan had no reason not to, however, and untangled it with surprising speed. “I have three younger sisters,” he said, answering the unasked question. Athos supposed that made sense, though he had no idea what that would be like. Porthos, who grew up in a community infused with large families and had at least two dozen people at every holiday meal, nodded in solidarity.

“Have you gotten…?” Constance asked d’Artagnan. The young man blinked and nodded, holding up the bag with a muffin in it. “No, I meant something. You know. A thing.” She spoke softly but it was hard not to hear her, siren abilities bleeding through and all that. Athos turned back around with d’Artagnan’s tea in time to see the blush on his face return.

Honestly, with the amount d’Artagnan blushed it was a wonder his default appearance didn’t include it. And the red was so vivid, highlighting his high cheekbones and dark eyes. In a few decades, he would look downright dangerous. As of now, though, he looked like a young man who hadn’t quite grown into his facial features yet.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, could I get one of those cups?” D’Artagnan pointed at one of the coffee cups that the store sold. They were massive, Porthos-sized as Aramis liked to say, and came in either black or blue. Regardless of the mug color, the shop’s logo was plastered on one side in bright gold. Not a lot sold, but they weren’t doing any harm sitting around and rearranging them was something to do when the place was more dead than a graveyard. 

Athos was pretty sure he owned four.

“Sure.” Porthos rung it up and, as soon as d’Artagnan’s back was turned gave Constance a glance. The siren shook her head and Porthos dropped it. “What can I get for you?” She ended up ordering the same drink as her last visit, as well as a blueberry scone. Athos got that for her first.

“Are you going to their holiday party?” Athos asked as he handed the scone to her. He was referring to the yearly event that Porthos and Aramis threw at their apartment. They lived in a place that was barely big enough for the two of them, yet they revelled in inviting others over and getting yelled at by the landlord for the ensuing chaos that occurred. Everyone loved it, even Athos though he abstained from drinking for the most part.

After all, seeing Porthos and Aramis try to put reindeer antlers on Treville was entertaining enough and a much better sight when Athos knew he would remember it in the morning. 

Constance nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Is there going to be another white elephant?” She asked. Porthos shrugged; the last time they had included a joke gift exchange, everything was sexual one way or the other except for the oversized wine glass that, of course, Athos had gotten. Though it was amusing to see one person open up a large box that ended up being filled with condoms, after a while it stopped being funny and started being embarrassing for everyone involved.

“We’ll keep everyone updated,” Porthos promised. He glanced at Athos, who was standing there as if he was try to impersonate a statue. “Need help there?” The werewolf teased. Athos rolled his eyes and went to make some coffee. 

He definitely hadn’t been looking at d’Artagnan huddled in a corner, gripping at his muffin like it was a lifeline, and appearing for all intents and purposes a fish out of water. The young man, wherever he had come from, must not have had a lot of coffee shops. Athos, as he started up one of the many machines that made the aforementioned drink, felt a stab of pity for d’Artagnan at the thought.

That definitely didn’t prompt Athos to hope that maybe, just maybe, d’Artagnan would come in more often. New experiences and all that. 

Shaking his head, Athos turned to make some remark to Constance about the lost puppy in the corner, only to realize that she was already with her friend in the aforementioned corner. Athos pretended that he didn’t care. He was good at that. He also ignored the significant looks Porthos shot him for the rest of the shift. For many reasons, Athos was not just good at pretending that his coworkers weren’t there. He was a damn expert.

 

 

 

“No Constance this time?” Athos asked as d’Artagnan walked in. Over the past few weeks, he had become one of the regulars at the coffee shop. For a while he had gotten a mug with every order, but then Athos had made some offhand comment about how clumsy d’Artagnan must be with needing to constantly replace them and then the habit had stopped. Athos hadn’t managed to ask d’Artagnan about it and all Aramis, who had spoken to Constance about it over text, said was that it wasn’t important enough to be worth pressing for details. 

The young man in question shook his head and hesitated before ordering, the same thing as the last few times. At this point, Athos was starting to smell lavender in his sleep.Though it did look like d’Artagnan needed the tea; his nose was a harsh pink from the cold and his cheeks were a vibrant red. 

“No Aramis or Porthos?” D’Artagnan asked almost as a second thought. Athos shook his head and rung d’Artagnan up. “Can I have a receipt?” The question caught him off guard, but Athos nodded and handed the slip of paper over. “Thanks.” D’Artagnan took off his backpack and put his receipt in it. 

Athos caught a glance of paper after paper, all different sizes and colors, and wondered if d’Artagnan was a hoarder. Was he some kind of rare, tall hobbit? Or perhaps a griffin who just hid his wings? It was rude, Athos knew, to care so much about what creature someone else was, but he couldn’t help it. Where he was raised, knowing what everyone else happened to be was a matter of social survival.

“What brought you to the city?” Athos found himself saying, even though he never made small talk with customers. If Aramis were to see him, the incubus would have a fit. Hell, he would have had a fit over the way that Athos felt himself brightening just after seeing d’Artagnan walk into the coffee shop. Thank god for solo shifts. 

“I, uh, needed a change of scenery.” D’Artagnan was being vague and Athos considered pressing him. “How long have you known Constance?” The deflection was enough to get the point across, though, and Athos could accept that some people just didn’t want to talk about their past. 

He, of all people, could respect that. “Ever since I started working here. She and Aramis have been friends for a long time,” Athos replied. “I’ve worked here five years and they knew each other before that.” Athos went about making d’Artagnan’s drink. The noise of the machines drowned out any opportunity for conversation and Athos expected d’Artagnan to go sit somewhere. 

When Athos turned around, though, the young man was still standing there. “Here you go.” Athos handed him his drink. D’Artagnan swallowed and took it. The fabric of his gloves was soft, pleasant to the touch. Athos didn’t let his fingers linger, though he could not say the same for his eyes. He met d’Artagnan’s and the two stared at one another for a moment. Athos felt drawn to d’Artagnan, wanting to give him whatever he wanted.

Athos snapped out of it and looked away, right as the door opened and a burst of cold air flooded the mostly empty shop. Porthos and Aramis walked in, arms wrapped around one another. Aramis was bundled up as if he had robbed an old lady and taken all of her knit clothes. He looked ridiculous, so of course Porthos kept glancing at his boyfriend like he had hung the sun. 

“Hello, d’Artagnan. Giving Athos hell I hope,” Aramis commented, taking off his hat and shaking the snow off of it. D’Artagnan laughed even as Athos rolled his eyes.

“I am never taking a shift for you again,” Athos warned. Aramis shrugged, knowing there was no real weight behind his words, and swaggered over to the counter. “Porthos,” Athos called out, “Keep an eye on your man. Did he tell you about the nymph who tried to kiss him the other day?” Aramis rolled his eyes.

“Porthos knows I have eyes only for him. Besides, who else would chase off all of my suitors? He doesn’t even need a stick.” That was certainly true. Athos was not small by any means, but next to Porthos he felt like he was a dwarf. Even d’Artagnan, who was taller than Athos by a good few inches, was shorter than Porthos. That wasn’t even taking into consideration Porthos’ arms.

They were, as Aramis liked to say, fucking tree trunks.

“You only keep me around to fend off the masses, I knew it.” Porthos feigned being stabbed in the heart before grinning at the person who wasn’t part of their trio. “And oh, hello d’Artagnan. No Constance?” D’Artagnan adopted a look of annoyance for a split second.

“Am I not allowed to come here on my own?” He asked. “Is this a couples-only establishment, because I didn’t get the memo.” Athos snorted even as Porthos and Aramis laughed at d’Artagnan’s exasperation. “To answer the question of the day, Constance is busy at the apartment. The heater broke again. I decided to get some fresh air.” D’Artagnan pulled his jacket around him tighter. “I thought it might be warmer here and it was until someone opened the door.” 

The glare he shot Aramis was comical in the best of ways and carried all the weight of a soft summer breeze.

“Don’t worry, lad.” Aramis motioned to Porthos. “He’s a spare heater. Werewolf and all that. You run at, what, one hundred degrees?” 

Porthos blushed the way he did every time Aramis complimented him in front of others. Not to say that Porthos was humble. The werewolf knew that he was a catch, but incubi got the best of the best and interspecies partnerships were not common.

“One hundred on a good day, love.” Porthos looked at d’Artagnan and, in a stage whisper, told him, “I’m always getting the short end of the stick. His feet are the coldest things on earth.” 

“You are sleeping on the couch for that,” Aramis told him without hesitation. D’Artagnan glanced at Athos, who remembered that this was the first time the young man had been around the couple while they weren’t working. Somehow the two were able to act professional when on the clock and in front of customers. When it was only Athos, of course, that poise went out the window.

Athos felt a stab of sympathy for d’Artagnan. Aramis and Porthos were not what most people thought made up a normal couple, incubus or werewolf traits aside. Still, they clearly cared for one another and someone would have to be blind to not see it. 

“Are you two going to order or are you here to harass paying customers?” Athos asked his two coworkers, who also were his two friends. 

“We are paying customers,” Aramis replied. “And your friends. Don’t we get some kind of special exception?” He grinned at Athos, ignoring the deadpan look he got back. After a moment, he conceded to Athos’ expression. “A chai tea for me and a coffee blacker than a demon’s soul for this beast here,” Aramis ordered, patting his boyfriend on the shoulder. “And oh, d’Artagnan, it’s good we ran into each other. You’re invited to the party.” 

“The illustrious holiday party where everyone involved gets incredibly drunk and your neighbors threaten to call the landlord every year?” D’Artagnan questioned. Aramis positively beamed. 

“So you’ve heard of it! Great. Ask Constance for the details, don’t be late, bring your own drinks if you want. Ugly holiday sweaters are optional.” With that, Aramis turned back to Athos. “Don’t you dare forget the employee discount,” he warned. “I braved a fifteen minute walk to get here, I deserve fifteen percent off.” 

“Oh yes, I had completely forgotten that you worked with me,” Athos deadpanned. 

The laughter that came out of d’Artagnan definitely did not do strange things to Athos’ heart. Definitely.

 

 

 

It was almost funny how painfully loud d’Artagnan was as he put his backpack down at a table, setting it on the ground and kicking it so it wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. As if there were people to trip; the coffee shop was dead during the lull between lunch and dinner on Thursday. Athos had even sent Aramis to the back to do inventory, that was how confident he was in his ability to handle the register and coffee. 

Without setting anyone on fire, too. That was a big one. 

“Do you need help with that?” Athos found himself asking, mouth moving of its own accord. His eyes were flirting between d’Artagnan, who was standing in front of him bundled up in an almost ridiculous amount of winter wear, and the backpack lying on the floor.

The backpack which was almost entirely covered in cheesy key chains, each hitting one another in even the softest breeze. The entire thing was like the world’s ugliest and worst sounding wind chime, except it was also the size of one of the tables and currently lying on the floor of the coffee shop. Athos wasn’t sure whether to be amazed, horrified, or some combination of the above. 

D’Artagnan at least had the dignity to look a little embarrassed. “I, uh, am thinking of collecting. You know. Key chains.” Athos raised an eyebrow and d’Artagnan blushed even harder. “It’s a thing I do. Collect things.” _Great gods, he is a hoarder, Athos thought._

He was even more horrified that he couldn’t bring himself to find it offensive. Instead, between the ridiculousness of it all and the expression on d’Artagnan’s face, the habit was cute. Yes, cute. Athos was confident that he hadn’t thought that anything could be described as such since he was a boy growing up and begging for a pet rabbit. 

“What happened to your collection of paper?” Athos questioned, remembering the mass that had been shoved into d’Artagnan’s backpack the other day. 

“It was too hard to organize.” The reply was so deadpan that Athos couldn’t help but smile. D’Artagnan returned the look, his grin much larger, as he walked over. “Just you today?” He asked, leaning against the counter in an almost painful attempt to be casual. Athos wasn’t sure what d’Artagnan was trying to accomplish through it, but figured it was a valiant attempt.

“I sent Aramis to the back to do inventory.” D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. 

“You volunteered to interact with people?” Athos couldn’t bring himself to be offended. D’Artagnan couldn’t have known him for much longer than a few weeks but it wasn’t hard to tell that Athos, suffice to say, did not like anyone else. Except, of course, Aramis and Porthos. 

_And,_ some part of Athos’ brain said, _d’Artagnan._ To that, Athos replied with a simple two words: _fuck off._

“If I left Aramis out here, then I would return to see a line out the door and more flowers than a greenhouse.” Athos paused, considering the idea. “I suppose there could be worse. There was one occasion in which Aramis almost incited a small riot.” D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow but before Athos could explain, the front door opened. A harpy, wings almost too big to fit through the doorframe, walked in and shook off some snow.

“I’ll have a lavender tea,” d’Artagnan ordered, realizing that he could no longer take up all of Athos’ attention. It was no surprise what d’Artagnan wanted, considering he had asked for the same thing every time he came in, but Athos would rather go swimming in the Arctic Sea than admit that he knew that much about a practical stranger. “And you owe me that story,” d’Artagnan added as he paid. 

Athos rolled his eyes and handed him the receipt on instinct. “I, uh, don’t actually need this anymore. Thanks, though.” D’Artagnan’s previous embarrassment returned, though Athos couldn’t help but be glad that the man wasn’t collecting paper anymore.

“Your backpack was a mess,” Athos mused. “Though I would not say that this is an improvement.” D’Artagnan glanced at his backpack and winced. 

“It might be a little much,” he admitted. D’Artagnan didn’t stick around for long enough for Athos reply, though. He moved out of the way so the other customer could order one double shot espresso with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Athos barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes when she asked for low fat milk.

Maybe he should have been the one to do inventory. 

“That’ll be five fifteen,” he told her. After ringing her up, Athos went to make the drinks. He focused on d’Artagnan’s first, picking the cup up and walking over to where all the teabags were kept.

Athos looked at the cup, where only “lavender tea” was written in his messy scrawl. He wrote “the hoarder” above that and did his best not to look pleased when, later, d’Artagnan sipped at his tea and gave Athos a cheeky grin. 

Later, when Aramis was done with inventory and Athos was lounging around with a bored expression, the incubus suddenly snapped his fingers. “Ah-ha, I’ve figured it out,” he declared. Athos, who was far too used to Aramis’ sudden bursts of inspiration to really be that surprised, raised an eyebrow. “D’Artagnan came today, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Athos drawled, not sure where this was going and not sure he wanted to know. “Why?” 

Aramis shrugged. “No reason.” He remained silent for a grand total of eleven seconds, each counted meticulously in Athos’ head. “You seem happier. Or, well, less moody.” 

Athos turned his head so he could give Aramis a clear view of just how unimpressed he was with that declaration. Before he could say anything, though, the door opened and a group of chattering seelies came in to signal the start of the evening rush. Still, Aramis’ words stuck with him and, that night, Athos found himself staring in the mirror and wondering what exactly Aramis had seen.

 

 

 

The party was ridiculous, that was the only way Athos knew how to describe it. Every year, Porthos and Aramis managed to squeeze an obscene number of people into their apartment, blasting music from invisible speakers and supplying so much alcohol that they might as well have robbed a liquor store. They always got the landlord called on them and yet, despite multiple threats regarding eviction, never showed any hesitance when it came to planning next year.

In short, it was the last place on earth that Athos wanted to be for Christmas eve and yet it was tradition for him to appear no less than an hour late. He had never once considered not showing up. The ensuing complaints from Aramis and Porthos would have been just about unbearable and Athos, for all of his self-loathing qualities, was not willing to go that far. 

This year, however, he came ten minutes after the party was supposed to have started, his favorite blue scarf around his neck. He clutched a bottle of good wine in one hand and his gag gift, a dog toy wrapped up in old newspapers, in the other. Knocking, he expected an already half-drunk Aramis to appear and was rather surprised when Samara opened the door. 

“Hello,” he managed to say, giving her a polite nod as he stepped inside. The warmth was a welcome relief. It wasn’t like the cold could really bother him per se, but it wasn’t pleasant either. “Who brought you here so early?” Athos asked, genuinely curious.

“I promised to help Porthos decorate a little… and to keep the place warm,” Samara replied, a small smile dancing over her face. She was wearing a horrible sweater that, in cursive, read “hotter than an afrit” in red. Athos would have bet his entire savings that Flea bought it for her. 

He wasn’t foolish enough to mention that, though, and instead asked where he could put his gift and the wine. Samara showed him the table with the presents for the exchange first and Athos already knew that at least one would be some kind of sex toy. That was just what Aramis found funny, though he always did manage to get truly ridiculous things. The other gifts, at least, would probably be normal enough. 

At least, as normal as a group of creatures as dysfunctional as their friend group could get. 

“Is Constance here?” Athos asked. Samara gave him a strange look and he felt his signature scowl settle over his face. “Am I not allowed to wonder about whether my friends are present at a party?” 

Samara shrugged. “She is, but d’Artagnan isn’t.” She left before Athos could ask why she felt the need to mention the young man at all. 

Athos knew that d’Artagnan would arrive eventually, after all. He had been invited and he seemed all too polite to turn down such an offer. Besides, Porthos, Aramis, and Constance had all droned on and on for the last week about the many virtues of the holiday party and how d’Artagnan would be a fool not to go. Even if d’Artagnan wasn’t assured to appear, Athos wouldn’t care. Why would he? 

There was absolutely no reason for Athos to be concerned about whether or not some person from the coffee shop, someone he had limited contact with, arrived at a party. Hell, it was entirely possible that Athos would leave before d’Artagnan arrived. Though he had brought a gift for the exchange, that did not mean that Athos was required to stay. Aramis and Porthos were always a little disappointed when their friend disappeared, but they understood that Athos was not quite as social as them.

“Athos! You’re here early,” Aramis called out, coming over and slinging an arm around his friend. The incubus was clearly intoxicated, his voice going from heavy with magic to none at all within one sentence. Athos was thankful that he had mentally prepared himself ahead of time, guessing that Aramis would lose control steadily as the night went on.

Porthos, the ever-present force among their trio, followed his boyfriend and gave him and Athos a grin. “Water or something else, Athos?” He asked. 

Not for the first time, Athos found himself thankful for how understanding they were. “Water is fine,” he replied. Porthos made to leave, but before he could a certain gnome spoke up.

“Why do you never drink?” Flea, who had appeared out of seemingly nowhere, asked. Athos would later state that he did not jump, since that would have dislodged Aramis and he was far too much of a gentleman to do that. If his heart rate skyrocketed, well, that was for him to know. “Is it a fire thing?” Flea continued, blissfully unaware that she was asking all the wrong questions. “I know Samara has set entire bottles on fire just by holding them.” 

“If that was the case, I would have brought something else tonight,” Athos deadpanned. He let out a soft sigh, unwilling to put a damper on the mood so early into the celebrations.

“Athos merely has too refined a taste for our barbaric beers,” Aramis cut in. “Where he is from, only wine aged a hundred years in caskets blessed by angels can be drunk.” He laughed even as Athos rolled his eyes, used to and in many ways thankful for the casual ways the others brought up his past. 

By treating it as if it were a joke, Athos was able to distance himself from the pain. And, well, if there was anything that went too far they could tell. It was one of the best parts of being friends with a werewolf and an incubus, but also the most obnoxious. Private emotions were not really a concept either understood.

“Aramis is correct,” Athos added, much to Flea’s amusement. “The alcohol here is terrible. That’s why I brought some; if he drinks enough, his liver will eventually give out and then we’ll be rid of him forever.” 

“I’m an incubus, Athos,” Aramis shot back, stepping away and spreading his arms. “It will take much more than alcohol poisoning to kill me.” He blinked and brightened, turning to Porthos. “That reminds me, did you buy a melon? We can’t forget our tradition.” 

“Of course.” Porthos’ trademark grin grew and he moved forward so he could slap Athos on the back. “Will you help us out this time?” It was the same question every year since the three had met and, just like every previous year, Athos had no intention of lending his abilities to be a party trick. 

He was impressive and powerful and, unlike the others, could keep that a secret. He found no allure in sharing or showing off. Besides, there was no one he needed to impress, not at the parties and not in his life.

The doorbell rang and Aramis immediately shot off to answer it. From the resounding shout of joy, it was either the pizza boy or Treville. Porthos tilted his head to one side, listening to the conversation the way only a werewolf could. After a moment he nodded to Athos and jerked a thumb towards the entry way.

“It’s your boy,” Porthos told him. Before he could properly show his indignation, d’Artagnan wandered into the living room with a casual smile on his face and the faint hints of a blush on his face, no doubt from the cold. He was wearing an oversized jacket and, combined with a hat with garish red puffs at the end of each ear flap, looked like his mother had dressed him. Unfortunately, Athos knew that d’Artagnan lived alone and that made his fashion sense borderline ridiculous. On anyone else, it would have been grounds for Athos to think less of them.

Considering it was d’Artagnan, who had abandoned his keychain collection in favor of amassing the greatest collection of buttons known to creature kind, this was nothing. 

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos exclaimed, pulling the other into a hug. “So great to see you,” he added, as if they didn’t see one another regularly at the coffee shop. When the werewolf pulled away, he slapped d’Artagnan on the back and nearly sent the poor lad sprawling across the floor. As it was, Athos stepped in and hauled d’Artagnan back to his feet, helping him regain his balance.

Athos rolled his eyes at Porthos, starting to feel like he was part of some big game that no one had bothered to tell him about, and brushed a bit of stray snow off of d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “You look ridiculous,” Athos said in lieu of a proper greeting. 

“I don’t like the cold.” D’Artagnan shrugged and pulled his hat off, shaking his head so that hair flew in every direction. When he stopped, there were strands sticking up every which way and Athos resisted the urge to neaten the proverbial rat’s nest that had appeared in d’Artagnan’s hair. The other was not a bird and social grooming wasn’t really a habit that Athos supported anyway. “Surprised to see you here,” d’Artagnan continued, utterly unaware of the internal dialogue Athos was running in regards to his hair and lack of care. “Thought you’d wait until things were… well, not louder but more alcoholic.”

“Why does everyone think I’m a drunk?” Athos couldn’t help but wonder aloud, though he knew the answer. He oozed the aura of someone who had a very intimate relationship with alcohol and, while it was true, it had not been a particularly positive period in his life. 

There was a reason, after all, that Athos no longer drank. 

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan mumbled, unzipping his jacket. “Didn’t mean to... “ He hesitated, obviously out of his depth. Athos, feeling a general good will towards d’Artagnan for reasons that weren’t quite clear even to him, just shrugged and stepped back as Aramis reappeared holding three empty glasses and a bottle of champagne. He gave d’Artagnan a polite nod before proceeding to just about ignore him. 

“I thought we’d break out the good stuff,” Aramis explained as he handed a glass to his boyfriend and to Athos. He held the bottle out to Athos, who sighed even as he uncorked it with sheer force of will. That is to say, experience and a good dose of nature ability. It was only a matter of heating the bottle ever so slightly and popping the cork out with his fingers; a party trick, really. 

He poured a drink for his two friends, though he set it aside without serving himself. Athos glanced around and Aramis, having expected this, procured a bottle of water out of what seemed to be thin air. Since magic in the most broad sense was not one of the incubus’ powers, Athos assumed that it had just been hiding in Aramis’ jacket. It was one of the small ones, just enough to fill his glass, and Athos tossed it aside when it was empty. 

Still, Athos found himself appreciating his friends for the second time in an hour. It was a record, really, especially considering Athos hadn’t even thought about setting either Aramis or Porthos on fire yet.

Aramis raised his glass first. “To us! All for one--”

“And one for all,” the three concluded, clicking their glasses together. They downed their drinks as if they were shots and, once it was over, exchanged smiles. It was a silly tradition, really, one started the first holiday party for no other reason than because Aramis had insisted, but Athos enjoyed it. He felt as if he had a family, if his family was made up of different creatures and actually liked him.

The doorbell rang and the moment of tranquility was ruined as Aramis dashed off to see who it was. Porthos gave Athos a look that the phoenix couldn’t understand before following his boyfriend, leaving the other two to entertain themselves. 

D’Artagnan glanced at Athos. “So is that something you usually do?” Athos nodded.

“A salute to yet another year surviving one another’s company.” He looked at his empty glass and felt the familiar yearning for something to drink. Instead of succumbing, he let out a huff and set the offending object aside as if it had personally offended him. “I usually never stay at these parties long, so we’ve taken to doing the toast as quickly as possible.”

“And how long are you planning on staying for this one?” D’Artagnan asked, their eyes meeting as Athos turned to look at him. The young man looked striking in that moment, the weird tint of the lights making him glow and adding to the russet red on his cheeks. 

Athos remembered thinking that d’Artagnan would be attractive in a few decades. He could punch his previous self. Screw decades, d’Artagnan was attractive now.

That realization did not cause Athos’ brain to short circuit the way it should have. 

“We’ll see,” Athos managed to say, realizing that d’Artagnan was still waiting for a reply. Thankfully, Treville decided to walk into the living room at that moment, saving Athos from further confusion or embarrassment around someone who was quickly becoming a stable part of Athos’ social circle. No pun intended.

Since, well, Treville was a centaur. A very old and wise one who loomed over everyone else and had a permanent look of exasperation on his face, and who also happened to be Athos’ boss, but it wasn’t like anyone cared. Nope, at Aramis’ parties there was no Treville-the-boss. Just Treville the amused, if somewhat frazzled, centaur. 

“Hello, Athos. Pleasure to see you outside of work for once,” Treville commented, giving him a slight bow. “And I know I’ve seen you around the shop before, but I can’t remember your name. I am Treville, you are…?” He extended a hand for d’Artagnan to shake. Athos couldn’t help but feel a little glad when it lasted for hardly five seconds.

“D’Artagnan. I live with Constance. Well, not with her but in her building.” He swallowed, shifting so it hurt his neck less to look up at Treville. “You own the coffee shop, right? I’ve heard of you.” Realizing that all he had heard was the three complaining, though affectionately, about their boss, d’Artagnan fell silent.

Treville, who knew that his employees loved him and showed it in their own strange ways, just smiled his all-knowing smile. “I hope to see you around more,” he replied before glancing around. “Now, where exactly is Porthos? He told me that he found a whiskey that I just needed to try…” He trotted away, taking care not to step on anyone’s toes as the room had grown substantially more crowded within a few minutes.

Athos wasn’t even sure when everyone had arrived, but he suddenly found that there were too many people, too much going on, too many conversations in one space. “Sorry,” he muttered, brushing past d’Artagnan as he escaped to the kitchen. He half-expected the young man to follow and convinced himself that he wasn’t disappointed when that didn’t happen.

In the kitchen, it appeared that Samara and Constance had the same idea. They were both drinking what appeared to be red wine, chattering about a book that Athos had only heard vague mentions of. Seeing him, they both stopped and exchanged a look. That alone was almost enough for Athos to take what was left of his dignity and general self-preservation and leave.

“D’Artagnan is here,” Constance said, motioning around. “If you’re looking for him.” Athos was among close acquaintances and, as such, did nothing to hamper his sigh. “Or perhaps you’re here to avoid him?” Constance sounded almost hopeful.

“I really do not understand why you think I have such an obsession with him. I don’t even know what creature he is,” Athos snapped, hoping that it was clear how little he actually cared about anything they thought. 

Samara snorted and it was such an unexpected reaction that Athos raised an eyebrow at her, scowl deepening just a hair. “It’s not like he hides it,” was all the afrit commented. And of course she knew what d’Artagnan was, even though they couldn’t possibly have had more than half a dozen conversations. At least, if their interaction was anything to go by. 

Athos was not jealous. He was not jealous that someone who was a stranger to d’Artagnan knew more about him than he did. Because being jealous, envious, meant that he cared. Which he did not.

He cared only about coffee and his scarves and good books and brewing lavender tea the same time every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday because that’s when d’Artagnan came in, like clockwork, often with another bizarre collection that he had started up --

“Fuck.” Constance giggled at the look on Athos’ face.

“I think our noble phoenix just found out that he has _feelings_ for our little d’Artagnan,” she whispered to Samara, doing no real attempts to prevent Athos from hearing. Constance stepped forward and rubbed Athos’ arm in an attempt to comfort him. “It’s ok, it’s a completely natural part of growing up.”

“I’m older than you. By centuries,” Athos protested, falling into sarcasm and spite in order to pretend that he wasn’t listening to what Constance was actually saying. “You have lived an eighth of my lifespan. If that.” 

Samara sighed and looked at Athos with what could only be described as a ‘you are being ridiculous and need to get your head out of your ass.’ It was easy to identify because he had seen the same expression on Porthos’ face. Porthos who, of course, had gotten it from Aramis. 

Sometimes Athos hated how everyone he knew was connected. 

“I do not have feelings for d’Artagnan,” Athos insisted, even though he knew this was a losing battle. When Constance put her mind to something, no one could get in her way. She had once convinced Treville to give Athos a week off of work in order to force Athos to have a vacation, and then prevented him from spending the whole time in his apartment. And Samara? She was a wildcard but if she knew then Porthos had to know, and if Porthos knew that meant Aramis did.

There was a loud _pop_ and a cheer went up, followed by a smattering of laughter that soon got eaten up by conversation. A moment later, d’Artagnan came in with a grin on his face and an alcohol-induced blush on his face. There was something glistening in his hair and on his face and it took Athos a moment to realize that it was some drink and not sweat. Athos raised an eyebrow, doing his best to look absolutely unimpressed. He wasn’t sure if he was succeeding; d’Artagnan didn’t seem fazed at all.

“Is there any more champagne? We just opened the last one that was out there,” d’Artagnan asked, turning to Samara and Constance.

“I’m not surprised,” Athos muttered. D’Artagnan glanced at him, tilting his head in confusion.

“I didn’t hear you.” 

“It wasn’t anything important.” Constance cleared her throat and opened the fridge, pulling out a chilled bottle and handing it to d’Artagnan.

“Here you are. Tell Aramis to pace himself better. The party’s barely begun.” D’Artagnan promised he would before disappearing. As soon as he was gone, Constance punched Athos in the shoulder. “You. Fucking. Idiot.” Athos neutral expression was replaced by his more typical scowl.

“What was that supposed to be for?” He asked, crossing his arms and stepping back as much as he could. The kitchen was not all that large and he was acutely aware of both women looking at him. 

“You realize that you like d’Artagnan and then you--”

“I do not like d’Artagnan,” Athos interrupted. “I am amicable with him. That does not equal affection.” Constance huffed and opened her mouth to continue arguing, but Athos held a hand up to silence her. “I understand that the consensus is that I need to make more friends, but I will not under duress. Constance, I am over two hundred years old and that is young for my species.” Athos felt his eyes soften, thinking about when he was well and truly a child. 

That had been so long ago, even he had difficulty remembering. He had a brother and parents, once, and servants. They had all left when Athos allowed Milady into his life. When Athos had married her, a succubus, an outsider. 

Athos swallowed and shook his head ever so slightly. “Understand that I, for the first time in a very long time, am happy. That is enough.” He met her gaze and did not blink. Constance was the one to look away. 

“Ok.” She left without another word. Samara did not. 

The two stood in the kitchen, in silence, for several minutes. The noise of the party, which was in full swing, bled into where they were waiting. Athos could hear d’Artagnan talking with Aramis about the local football team, though the two of them were occasionally drowned out by the sound of laughter from a joke or remark from Porthos. 

“It is possible to be happy even with ones who live such short lives.” With that, the afrit, a woman who probably had centuries on Athos, exited the kitchen.

Athos glared at the fridge, which was plastered in pictures of Aramis, Porthos, and their friends. He came over often enough, but somehow he was still surprised to see his own face looking back at him. Of course he wasn’t smiling in any of the photos, but he was… Content. Life was good. Athos would be perfectly fine with things continuing the way they were. 

Except he wasn’t. Athos looked at the person in the pictures and then thought about the last time he had smiled. The last person to make him happy. 

“Oh hell.”

 

 

 

For such a small apartment, it was impossible to talk to d’Artagnan in anything approximating solitude. First Athos was dragged off to make conversation with Aramis and one of his exes, a lovely fairy unfortunately named Anne. The two had ended their relationship amicably and now, while she was not comfortable around Porthos, at least the werewolf wasn’t self-conscious around her anymore. And it wasn’t that Athos disliked her particularly or anything, but she wasn’t his favorite person either.

After he got out of that encounter, Athos made his way to where d’Artagnan was chatting with Treville. The two seemed so engrossed, as if something important had come up, that Athos didn’t feel comfortable interrupting. And besides, what was Athos supposed to say? _Sorry, Treville, can I talk to d’Artagnan for a moment? I need to tell him that I may have accidentally developed feelings for him and I’m not sure how to proceed because the last person I entered a relationship with ended up ruining my reputation and estate, drove me to alcoholism, and then reappeared in my life only to burn my house to the ground with me inside._

Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea. Athos was one hundred percent convinced that Constance had wanted him to terrify d’Artagnan with a proper demonstration of his poor social skills and worse history, except Constance had no idea what had happened to Athos and she obviously thought Athos wasn’t too horrible of a person when it came to social interaction. Right? 

Athos liked to think his friends and general acquaintances were more than prepared to criticize him. It helped keep him sane.

“What has you thinking so hard?” Aramis asked, about halfway through the night and more than halfway through his fifth or sixth drink. Athos, who loved his friends for all their faults, took the glass from Aramis and set it on the nearest flat surface. “I was drinking that,” Aramis bemoaned, ignoring the look Athos gave him. “And that is not getting you out of my question. What are you thinking about?”

For a horrifying moment, Athos thought he would actually respond. Thankfully, his self-control had not yet crumbled enough and he just rolled his eyes at the question. “Nothing important. Simply wondering why I am still here.” 

“Because you love us?” Aramis questioned, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

Athos glanced over at where d’Artagnan was telling some story, motioning in the air with his hands and threatening to spill his drink all over the floor. It was impossible to hear him over the noise of the crowd but the look on his face was clear. He was happy, laughter in his eyes and pulling at the edges of his lips. D’Artagnan looked wonderful, really, already more mature than the person who had walked into the coffee shop just over a two months ago. 

Then d’Artagnan looked over and grinned at Athos, almost as if they were sharing some private joke, and Athos felt something in his chest that he hadn’t felt in years. Decades, perhaps. 

“Athos?” Aramis glanced around, trying to see what his friend was seeing, and Athos shook his head. 

“Nothing.” The phoenix wished that he could grab a glass and just drink whatever was in it. He could use some liquid courage. Instead, though, he demonstrated what he hoped was a significant amount of self-control and began to make his way over to d’Artagnan. Conversation or not, Athos could wade in through the crowd and talk to the person he had feelings for. 

He was two hundred and thirty-three year old phoenix who had experienced wars, economic depression, political instability, and general catastrophe. This was not going to defeat him. 

“Aramis! Are you ready for our little party trick?” Porthos boomed over the rest of the noise, stopping Athos in his tracks. Everyone who was familiar with the occasion lowered their voices so that the party was almost mellow. 

Or, rather, the party was melon’ing down. Because Porthos was holding a cantaloupe in either hand, a blindfold wrapped loosely around his wrist, with a pistol hanging from a few fingers. Athos, who was entirely too used to this, just watched as Aramis and Porthos hurriedly pushed people around so that there would be enough room.

“What are they doing?” Athos was much too proud to ever jump in surprise, but he was not above admitting that he was caught off-guard when d’Artagnan appeared behind him, breath hot enough to curl around Athos. There was more than a hint of alcohol there, though Athos was not surprised. Everyone and their mother was drinking. Athos, and the handful of designated drivers, were the only sober people. “Is that a gun?”

“Yes,” Athos replied, seeing no reason to lie. “They’ve been doing this for longer than I’ve known them, it’ll be fine.” The two watched in silence as Aramis allowed Porthos to blindfold him and then place a cantaloupe on his head. It took a moment for the incubus to balance it, but after a minute he gave the room a thumbs up and fixed his moustache. 

“Is this why the landlord is always called?” D’Artagnan wondered, not necessarily asking Athos. The young man, like the rest of the room, was unable to look away as Porthos checked the gun for any damage. It was all for show. Athos knew that the thing was maintained perfectly and that neither Porthos nor Aramis would ever actually do this if they thought there was anything wrong with the thing that was going to be shooting a piece of iron at Aramis at a deadly speed.

“No,” Athos answered anyway. “Though once the bullet almost went through the wall. That was an awkward conversation.” The look on d’Artagnan’s face could only be described as one of _what the fuck am I listening to._ “But no, this is generally nothing. The neighbors are used to it by now.” 

D’Artagnan reached out and gripped Athos’ arm, nails digging into his skin and leaving sharp red marks. Athos found himself getting pulled close to warmth, to a surprising amount of body heat that rolled off of d’Artagnan. In any other circumstance it would have been attractive or even arousing, but Athos was too confused at being manhandled. 

People didn’t do that to him. No one was certain that he wouldn’t set them on fire. Aramis and Porthos, maybe, would treat him like a ragdoll from time to time. With Porthos it was almost unavoidable. He was a giant person and he didn’t always regulate his strength. And Aramis was just tactile in general. But Constance? Hell, Samara? No way.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan hissed, “Porthos is going to shoot Aramis. In the head. In front of all of us.” 

That got Athos rolling his eyes. “Nonsense. Porthos is going to hit the melon and it’s going to explode all over Aramis’ hair. Aramis will complain about it and then do the same to Porthos and everyone will laugh.” 

Porthos lowered the gun, found Athos in the crowd, and winked. Athos flipped him off. 

“Athos, Porthos has had, like, eight drinks. There’s no way he’s sober.” D’Artagnan’s concern was cute, really, which was just another sign of how far gone Athos was for him. Anyone else clinging to him, muttering in his ear, would have woken up in the ER being treated for third degree burns. “He can’t make this shot,” d’Artagnan argued. “He’s drunk.”

“He’s never made it sober,” Athos replied right as Porthos fired. 

The stupid cantaloupe exploded over Aramis’ head and another bullet got lodged in the wall. Everyone let out a loud cheer and the booming laughter that came out of Porthos dominated the room. It was nice and, with d’Artagnan still pressed up behind him, Athos found himself feeling more than content. 

“Athos?” D’Artagnan’s voice was so soft that Athos almost didn’t hear him speak. The phoenix shifted and turned around so he could hear better, not expecting d’Artagnan to be a few inches away. Their breath mingled in the air and all Athos had to do was lean forward and they would be kissing. The idea that they could was not what terrified Athos.

No, the part that caused fear to run up and down every nerve was the fact that Athos thought he would enjoy it. 

Athos pulled away and raised an eyebrow at d’Artagnan, who grinned. “I’m feeling great. I had a question though.” D’Artagnan raised his glass and took a gulp, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. A trickle of whatever he was drinking -- whiskey or beer or who knew -- bled past his lips and trickled down his chin. “What are you?”

“Excuse me?” Athos raised an eyebrow, feeling as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over his head. He crossed his arms, the party fading to the background. 

“I can’t tell. Constance is a siren, Aramis is an incubus, but you… I can’t figure you out.” D’Artagnan was drunk, Athos knew, but he was just starting to understand just how much the young creature’s judgement was impaired. It was rather rude and even offensive to ask someone what they were, except for certain contexts. 

And Athos wasn’t sure why d’Artagnan wanted to know. That was concerning in of itself. “Does it matter?” Athos asked, voice colder than usual. D’Artagnan shrugged and took another sip of his drink. “What are you?” 

Of all the responses, d’Artagnan seemed to not have expected that. He stepped back and stumbled against a table, clinging onto the edge to regain his balance. Athos sighed and looked around the room. Where was Constance? D’Artagnan lived with her, wasn’t he her problem? It was growing more and more clear that, while he was many things, sober and capable of making intelligent decisions was not one of them. If they were going to have a conversation about what kind of creature they were, it was going to be done sober. 

Athos knew he wouldn’t regret telling d’Artagnan that he was a phoenix, but it was just good manners to wait until he could be certain that there wouldn’t be doubt on d’Artagnan’s side. Why did Athos care so much? He knew why. He didn’t want to admit it, though.

“Constance,” Athos called out, spotting the siren. She didn’t hear him, though, and he was about to try again when a weight settled around his neck and _pulled._ Athos choked and pulled back, startled and finding himself staring at d’Artagnan. Somehow the young man had lost all sense of balance and tried using Athos to steady himself, only to find himself clinging onto a scarf while lying on the ground.

The scarf was Athos’ favorite. He wasn’t sure how he felt about having d’Artagnan wrap it around his hands and smell it. _Wait, what?_

“Oh dear.” Constance appeared next to Athos, looking down at their mutual friend. Her lips were pursed and her hands were on her hips. Beside the slight flush in her cheeks, she seemed just as restrained as she had been arriving at the party. Athos had no doubt that her alcohol tolerance was enough to rival Porthos’ though he had no intention of ever testing that theory. “I don’t suppose you two had a nice, long discussion about your feelings before the alcohol kicked in?” 

Athos gave her a look. Constance sighed. “Whatever.” She knelt down and began to pull d’Artagnan up. “Come on, up you go.” He was still aware enough to stand, though he stumbled immediately and clung onto Constance for dear life. “Tell Aramis this was the best party yet,” Constance said, not struggling as much as one would have thought she would, holding up all six feet of d’Artagnan. 

“Of course.” Athos hesitated, feeling obliged to help but not quite sure how he would go about doing that. Also he really wanted his scarf back, but d’Artagnan didn’t seem to be about to do that anytime soon. “Do you need help?” Athos found himself asking. 

Constance was about to say no but then she thought about it, looking between Athos and the person hanging off her side. Then she nodded and motioned for Athos to get d’Artagnan’s other side. 

It took them about thirty minutes to get out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the front door. Since, thanks to Athos’ eternal bad luck, the elevator was broken and the trio had to stumble, trip, and fall down three flights of stairs. Getting to Constance’s building was just a matter of hailing a taxi and Athos helped d’Artagnan into the car before heading back up to the party. 

“What happened to your scarf?” Porthos asked, maybe an hour later as everything was calming down and the majority of the guests were gone or sleeping on the flattest surface. “Do you need help looking for it?” The werewolf was drunk, but less so now that he had stopped drinking beer and focused more on water.

Athos touched his neck; he had hardly noticed that it was gone. “No, it’s fine,” he told his friend. “I know where it is.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out so I hope ya'll enjoy. As always, feel free to leave me a request here or PM me on tumblr [here!](http://thepoetofjustice.tumblr.com/) :)

“Oh my gods,” d’Artagnan swore as soon as Athos made eye contact with him. “I forgot your scarf at home.” The look on his face was sufficiently horrified to make up for the surge of annoyance that Athos felt knowing that he’d have to wait another few days to get the scarf back. “I’ll bring it next time, I swear,” d’Artagnan promised.

Athos would have been more inclined to believe him if this wasn’t the fifth or sixth time d’Artagnan had conveniently forgotten. But, well, d’Artagnan looked so embarrassed and there were other people in the cafe so Athos didn’t taunt him too much about it. Only a little.

“Oh, look. What a shame; we’re all out of lavender tea,” Athos murmured, changing the subject and making sure that his voice was loud enough so d’Artagnan could hear. The young man made a face, rolled his eyes, and ordered his tea anyway. “We don’t have any,” Athos replied, as if the display of teabags wasn’t right behind the counter and well within view of the customers. 

The display that was entirely full.

The deadpan on Athos’ face, though, was almost enough to sell it. Almost. Athos could tell that d’Artagnan was becoming immune to the look, though, because he just rolled his eyes. 

“Come on, Athos. I have somewhere to be and I just forgot. I’m sorry. Now sell me some tea before I complain to your boss.” Much to everyone’s horror, d’Artagnan and Treville had hit it off like a house on fire. Athos didn’t think that there was any chance that the coffee shop would get a new employee, but he didn’t know for certain. What he did know was that it would be unbearably difficult to avoid talking about his feelings if they were coworkers. 

Because that’s what Athos had been doing: avoiding everything that could have been seen as a responsibility. The party had been a week ago and Athos had yet to talk to d’Artagnan about anything that wasn’t scarf or tea related. Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Athos had also complained about Aramis a few times and d’Artagnan had mentioned that Constance was throwing a party soon to celebrate the new year, but that was it.

Nothing of importance, nothing of depth. 

Athos couldn’t find fault in his actions. He didn’t have time to have a serious talk with d’Artagnan and he didn’t know what he would even say. _I have strange romantic feelings for you but I have no intention of acting on them_ didn’t seem like the best way to start a conversation. 

Dating the younger man was out of the question for a myriad of factors. The first that came to mind was the simple fact that Athos still had no idea what the hell d’Artagnan was, except that he was not a phoenix. It was not that there was anything wrong with two different species being in a relationship, but Athos was a phoenix. He lived for centuries. For all he knew, d’Artagnan was one of those creatures who lived to be a hundred at most and then died. 

There had already been enough heartbreak in Athos’ life. He wasn’t prepared to endure anymore.

Besides, there was no indication that d’Artagnan felt the same way. Certainly not with his recent actions, forgetting Athos’ scarf every time and seemingly purposefully antagonizing Athos for no other reason than to see his reactions.

“You wouldn’t tell Treville anything,” Athos muttered, as he rung d’Artagnan up. “I have a question, though.” The suspicion came off of d’Artagnan in waves but another person’s opinion had never stopped Athos. “Does Constance know that you’re a scarf thief? Because I feel like she deserves to know that she has been harboring a common criminal.” 

The look on d’Artagnan’s face was priceless and Athos wished that he could take a picture. Instead, he resolved to do his best to memorize it. 

“I am -- excuse you -- I -- you know what --” d’Artagnan’s rambling was cut off by a firm cough behind him. The gnome behind him pointed to his watch and Athos let out a sigh and motioned for d’Artagnan to move along. 

When Athos gave the cup of tea to d’Artagnan, he lingered just long enough to see the slight eye roll and grin that appeared on the young man’s face. The phoenix couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed, even as d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. 

“Scarf hoarder, really?” He questioned. Athos nodded, lips twitching. His hands moved on instinct as he finished up the other drinks. “It isn’t a hoard if there’s only one item,” d’Artagnan pointed out. Athos snorted.

“You would know.” He leaned over to put the gnome’s venti, half-latte, half-frappuccino, vanilla bean coffee with low-fat milk on the counter. D’Artagnan reached forward and pulled Athos’ scarf off his neck. Athos was too surprised to even say anything. He just stared at d’Artagnan, eyes narrowing, hoping that the expression on his face conveyed just how unamused he was.

Except, well, Athos was very much amused. Anyone else would have been set on fire, but d’Artagnan only got a look for his nerve. 

There was a moment of silence, Athos uncertain if he was expected to try to get his scarf back or if d’Artagnan would just return it with a laugh. Did he make a fuss out of this? Or did he pretend that it didn’t bother him in the least? Athos wasn’t sure which would be more akin to his actual reaction. Part of him wanted to be mad. The vast majority of him, however, thought that this was actually rather entertaining. 

“Now it’ll be a hoard,” d’Artagnan explained, a faint blush on his face. Before Athos could argue to try to grab it back, the other man wrapped it around his neck and left. The little bell above the door echoed in the mostly empty shop. 

Athos glanced around, made sure that no one was looking at him, and his the counter with his head. Twice.

 

 

 

Constance practically skipped into The Triple Three with a grin on her lips and an assurance that she had news that Athos would not want to hear in her eyes. So, naturally, he told Aramis to take over the register and headed towards the back, intent on counting tea bags or coffee cups or something, anything, to get away from the siren.

“Oh Aramis, call Athos back for me. I had something to tell him.” Her voice was more than loud enough to reach him even through the door separating the front of the house and the back. The shop itself was buzzing, though not nearly as busy as it could be. Aramis would not appreciate being abandoned in the middle of the shift. Besides, Athos knew that he would pay for it in some passive-aggressive way if he didn’t talk to Constance.

So he turned back around, left the safety of the back hallway, and faced Constance with the most blank expression he could summon. “Hello, Constance. I haven’t seen you in a while. Doing all right?” Athos asked, playing the part of oblivious barista. Constance was having none of it. She took one look at him, scowled, and placed her hands on the counter. Leaning over it, she was almost as tall as him.

Almost was more than enough, though, as it was combined with the frightening gleam in her eyes. 

“Oh I’ve been doing wonderfully. I just wanted to ask if you had any idea why d’Artagnan has gone out and bought two scarves in the last week?” Constance saw the look of surprise flash on Athos’ face and her grin grew. “Of course, I’m only asking because you’re the only person I know who wears them on a regular basis.”

“I have no idea what habits d’Artagnan gets up to in his free time,” Athos interrupted. Constance snorted and leaned back on her heels. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She looked at Aramis, who was watching all of this with a rather bemused expression on his face. “I’ll have a chai tea with skim milk and… a lavender tea. Athos can make that. I’ve heard he’s rather good at it.” Athos rolled his eyes and went to do just as she asked.

“So, Aramis, are you doing anything next week…?” Constance’s voice was drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines and Athos had never been more glad.

When she finally left, there was a sudden rush as the nearby college got done with afternoon classes and every pixie and their mother wanted a caffeine hit. Aramis and Athos didn’t have time to talk and that was not a bad thing in Athos’ book. Of course it was a Wednesday so it didn’t last all that long; soon the two of them were leaning against the front counter with nothing better to do.

Aramis had a shit-eating grin on his face and Athos knew he was in for one hell of a conversation. “So, you and d’Artagnan?” It was phrased innocently enough, but there was absolutely nothing innocent about the expression Aramis had. Besides, Athos knew his friend too well to expect anything less. “I did think you were wearing the same scarf too often.” Aramis snapped his fingers. “And Porthos said you lost a scarf during the party. Did you let d’Artagnan borrow it?”

“There was no borrowing involved. D’Artagnan is a thief,” Athos argued, crossing his arms and definitely not pouting. “The two scarves he ‘bought’ were stolen from me and he refuses to return them.” Aramis raised an eyebrow and Athos scowled some more. “I’ll get them back eventually.”

“Uh huh,” Aramis replied, not at all convinced. “So when are you going to ask him out?” 

For that, Athos flipped him off. Aramis, though, was unperturbed. “I’m serious, Athos. Every time I see him, he looks at you the way people usually look at me.” Aramis ran a hand through his hair and winked. “And we both know how desirable I am.” Athos rolled his eyes, in no mood for his friend’s teasing. “Athos, I can put all of my power into my words and he barely even blinks at me. You glance in his direction and he’s enamored.” 

“Big word. Did you need to look that up in a dictionary?” It’s a low blow, insulting Aramis’ intelligence when the incubus is easily one of the cleverest people Athos knows, but Athos was now in a sour enough mood that he doesn’t care. Aramis seemed to sense that it was nothing personal but, of course, didn’t have enough of a self-preservation instinct to stop.

“What are you worried about? Him leaving you? I doubt that would happen. Us incubi might not be smart, but we’re damn good with relationships,” Aramis argued. Athos sighed and felt himself flare up a little. He frowned and regained control within seconds, but that doesn’t stop the smell of smoke from filling the shop. 

Athos sighed and looked down at his clothes. Nothing was too badly burnt, but his scarf was singed at the ends. There was something ironic about that, but Athos wasn’t quite sure what. Instead of thinking about it, he decided to focus on something else. He was good at distracting himself.

“This is not the time nor the place,” Athos tried to point out. Aramis glanced around the shop. Everyone was occupied with a drink and at least a dozen laptops were open. No one was paying them any attention. Short of actually setting Aramis on fire, they both knew that no one would care what they did. 

_The miracles of city life,_ Athos found himself thinking. “You and Constance need to understand when your interference is no longer welcome,” he said aloud. 

“You and d’Artagnan need to understand when your mutual pining is no longer welcome,” Aramis shot back. Athos had to admit that maybe, just maybe, Aramis had a point. A stupid, weak, poorly thought out point, but one nonetheless. 

Still, Athos was not about to admit that. He’d rather pull his own teeth out then give Aramis any more fuel to feed to his massive ego. 

“For the record, I’m concerned about d’Artagnan dying before I turn three hundred,” Athos hissed, scratching at his neck. “But you wouldn’t understand that.” It’s even worse, bringing it up and saying it aloud, because up until that point he was able to at least pretend that he hadn’t thought of it. 

Constance had gotten the cliff notes version. Aramis, being much closer to Athos, was about to get the full essay complete with an annotated bibliography and footnotes. 

“I’m a phoenix, Aramis. I’m going to live for at least eight hundred years, long after you and your grandchildren’s grandchildren are dead. That’s something I wake up every day knowing. And d’Artagnan is either a fool for not realizing this or thinks that I can just ignore that and try to be happy with him. You know what, I tried. I have tried to be happy knowing that all of my friends are going to die before me and it doesn’t work.” Athos let out a bitter laugh and pulled at the apron that made up his uniform. 

His scarf came off with it, his fingers stumbling over the knots and strings and jumbling everything together. “I’m leaving. Porthos should be in by six. You two can talk about how happy you are together then.” Athos threw the pile on the counter and marched off. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to be angry. Instead all he felt was numb. A bone deep, soul crushing numbness that he hadn’t felt in a while. Athos managed to get on the subway back to his apartment, up the stairs, and into his living room before he began to cry. 

He cried for a long time. 

 

 

 

Athos was unsurprised to get a phone call from Treville and he agreed to meet, outside of work, the next afternoon. Porthos and Aramis both said they could handle the shop and Treville mentioned, offhand, that he was thinking about hiring someone else in order to help out. Considering the way his luck was going, Athos was almost certain that ‘someone else’ was actually d’Artagnan. 

He was also certain that Treville wanted to talk to him about d’Artagnan, which meant that Athos had every reason he needed to just quit over the phone and move cities. He had utterly destroyed his life and uprooted himself once. Surely doing it a second time could be no worse. But no, Athos was many things but he was also stubborn and prideful and when he agreed to do something he did it.

Which was how he found himself sitting in the park by a fountain commemorating some actions of brave dwarves during a war that even he hadn’t been alive for. Athos stared at it, trying to make sense of why anyone would think that it was a smart idea to have water coming out of a dwarf nose. He attributed it to weird modern tastes in art and made a mental note to point it out to the others next time they were wandering through the park at one in the morning, half-drunk and half-asleep.

If there was a next time. Athos would not be surprised if Aramis and Porthos just didn’t want to talk to him or see him ever again. They knew he had baggage, but to be told that your friend was constantly thinking about how very mortal you were was probably a bit much for even the most committed of people. Besides, Athos had never been the most amicable to begin with. They certainly could do better.

The thought made Athos sad, though. He knew he complained about, teased, insulted, and generally acted like he disliked the two. But they did make life a bit more bearable and he never liked considering a future without them. Even Constance, with her infallible cheer and inability to keep to her own business, was a welcome intrusion in life from time to time. Athos would miss all of them.

And Treville, he supposed. It was hard to say what his relationship with the centaur was. The creature fit the stereotype of a parental figure, especially since Treville was the only person Athos knew who was older. Well, perhaps Samara was older. Athos didn’t know and it didn’t really matter; they hardly interacted. But Treville… Well, Treville was at least five centuries old and he didn’t look a day over one hundred. 

Athos wondered how Treville did it, if his age was another reason for his isolation. What possessed a centaur to open up a coffee shop of all places? And why had Treville hired such an… eccentric group of people to work there? Athos supposed the easy answer was that the centaur was just letting his instincts manifest themselves in strange ways, just like how Porthos always made sure his friends, his packmates, were eating well or how Aramis would spend hours on his hair and general appearance.

All creatures had strange habits, patterns that came up in life due to their instincts. Only a fool tried to ignore them. Athos was, of course, that fool. Phoenixes surrounded themselves with family, forming entire flocks and building nests. He didn’t. Not that anyone truly could. There were less than a dozen phoenixes left and Athos barely talked to the others. For all intents and purposes, phoenixes were an extinct species.

That was always a cheerful thought. 

“Hello, Athos,” Treville called out, trotting over. Athos stood and bowed slightly, the movement returned by the centaur. “Do you mind if we walk? The subway was absurdly crowded today and I need to stretch my legs.” Athos motioned for Treville to lead the way and the two began to meander their way around the park.

It was nice out, a crisp December day. There hadn’t been snow for a few days but there was still a light coat over every surface. The drifts melted as Athos’ boot sunk into them. He left behind puddles of cold water. Treville just cantered next to him, the two not talking for about anything except for small chat. 

Athos felt fairly certain that he was not about to lose his job, but he wasn’t very confident that he’d like the other reason this conversation was happening either. Eventually Treville sighed and shook his head. 

“I will be honest with you, Athos. Aramis wanted me to speak with you.” That was no surprise. “He said that you… had concerns about how long you will live.” It was probably the most roundabout way Treville could have said it, but Athos couldn’t bring himself to be offended. In a way, it was touching how much Aramis cared, if a bit unnecessary. 

Then again, it was all Athos’ fault for ranting in the first place. He wasn’t surprised in the least, though, so he remained silent. Taking his lack of a response as an indication to continue, Treville kept talking. 

“I know how it is to live a long time. You lose people and mourn them. You wonder why you continue to befriend them, knowing that they will die. The process repeats.” He took a shaky breath and stopped, looking right at Athos. “But I have not withdrawn from life. And believe me, Athos, I have wanted to many times.” 

There was a deep sorrow in Treville’s eyes, a look that Athos knew well. He had the same haunted stare, the shadow behind the light blue that gave away how old he really was. It was strange, in a way, to talk to someone who had been around longer. Athos hadn’t known many people who could boast the same, not back in his old life. Meeting Treville within the first month of moving to the city and then working for him? The odds were --

“Wait. Did Constance know?” Treville gave Athos a confused look. “When she told me to apply she told me that it would be a good fit. Did she know that I was… Well,” Athos wasn’t sure if there was a good way of putting it, “Old?” There was a moment of silence and then Treville shrugged. It was almost worse than confirmation. Athos didn’t like uncertainty in his life; it tended to lead to the worst case scenario becoming reality. This was different, he knew, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I assume so. She has never told me for certain.” Treville sighed and kicked at the ground. “That is not the point. Athos, you cannot let your fear control you or you will spend your considerably long life in misery.”

“What if I’m already miserable?” Athos questioned, a twinge of annoyance surging. He knew Treville was looking out for him, but even if it was in a loving and entirely understandable way he still couldn’t bring himself to fully appreciate it. Treville, for the third time in the last five minutes alone, gave him a look. This one was harder to read but, if Athos had to describe it, would have said Treville seemed exasperated. 

“Are you?” Athos opened his mouth to reply that yes, he was miserable. He hated his life and the fact that everyone was going to die and leave him alone if they didn’t abandon him first. His apartment was small and he didn’t have a life outside of work and a small circle of people. There was no hope for his future because his species was going down in number and no one in their right mind would ever be interested in him in the first place. He had feelings for someone who would probably be dead in sixty years. 

That was weird enough. D’Artagnan was nothing like Athos’ last love, though to say that Athos loved d’Artagnan would be an exaggeration. But Athos was not in denial, not anymore. He was interested in d’Artagnan. Annoying, scarf-stealing, sarcastic, _young_ d’Artagnan. And Athos hardly knew anything about him.

It was maddening and Athos hated it and relished it at the same time.

Because, despite everything, Athos wasn’t miserable. And he wasn’t just content. He was happy. He enjoyed going into work and arguing with Aramis over who should make the coffee and who should take orders. It made him smile, more or less, when Porthos and Flea talked about something Aramis had done. Even Constance’s no nonsense attitude was more than just refreshing. It was welcome.

Athos had friends, he liked them, and he didn’t want to lose them. Wasn’t that why he was so concerned in the first place?

Treville seemed to tell when Athos had his realization and the centaur smiled. “You are a very good person, Athos. For all of your faults, by which I mean your refusal to admit when you enjoy something, you make things better by your presence. It would be a shame for you to withdraw from society as you seem to want.” He started walking again. Athos was so caught up by his epiphany that he took a moment to follow. 

“You should tell Aramis. He was extremely concerned.” Treville sighed. “He cares for you. He and Porthos and Constance. As do I, if that wasn’t clear.” The conversation stopped for a moment as a pair of jogging gnomes went by. “I hired you because Constance vouched for you. I have not doubted my decision once.” More silence, this time because Athos was processing Treville’s words.

“How do you do it?” Athos asked, unsure of what else to say. Treville frowned.

“It’s difficult. As I said, you make friends and then you lose them and… it doesn’t get easier. But it’s worth it. You just make memories and hold onto them as best you can.” Treville sighed. Athos felt bad that he was the source of so much stress for someone he did respect, but he reasoned that this was really just Aramis’ fault. 

After all, if the incubus had just stayed out of everything then Athos wouldn’t have lost his patience and yelled, which meant that Aramis wouldn’t have called Treville who then wouldn’t have felt the need to ask Athos if he wanted to meet. This conversation wouldn’t have happened and then…

Then Athos wouldn’t be strangely all right about the fact that he was going to live so long. 

“I understand if you do not want to talk about it, but Aramis mentioned you had concerns over the fact that you have feelings for someone?” Treville questioned in such a polite way that Athos almost said yes. 

But despite everything, or perhaps because of, Athos still felt the need to keep some things to himself. “I appreciate the offer, Treville, but I need some time to think.” The centaur nodded and looked away. 

“Have you ever seen the trees in the spring? They blossom in all the colors of the rainbow, but most of them are purple or blue so it seems that the sky itself has fallen to the ground.” Treville had a far-away gleam in his eyes and Treville wondered how many times he had walked this way, how many people he had spoken to here. 

How many times Treville had seen the trees.

Hell, Treville might have been there when the trees were planted. Actually, now that Athos thought about it, _he_ was probably older than the trees and he was only two hundred and thirty three. 

“We will have to return then,” Athos replied. They exchanged small smiles and Athos decided that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be ok.

 

 

 

He returned to work the next day and immediately apologized to Aramis for losing it in a very public and altogether uncalled for manner. “I understand that you were concerned and I… you did not deserve that. I spoke to Treville and he helped me reach a conclusion and I just wanted to say that I am glad we are friends. You make my life better and I will appreciate that for as long as possible. The same applies to Porthos and Constance and d’Artagnan. So. Thank you.” Athos swallowed, waiting for Aramis’ response.

He did not expect the incubus to roll his eyes. “I know. You’d be lost without us, you idiot.” Aramis slugged Athos in the shoulder and then pushed him towards the back room. “Now go do inventory. You can make up for it by counting how many milk cartons are left.” Athos had never been so happy to count dairy products in his life.

Athos had moved on to seeing how many cups there were when Aramis stuck his head into the room. “Your favorite customer is here,” he teased. Athos rolled his eyes and set the stack of venti coffee cups aside. “I got him for you,” Aramis called out as he let the door swing close, cutting off the rest of his sentence. There was no question who Aramis was referring to, so Athos wasn’t surprised when he walked out and saw d’Artagnan standing there.

He was surprised when he saw the young man holding a scarf in his hands. It wasn’t one of Athos’, that was for sure. Athos knew he could be rather self-loathing, but he liked to say that he had good taste. The thing d’Artagnan was holding was some strange blue color, too light to be a proper shade but not quite baby or sky blue. Instead it looked like it had been left out in the sun too long or doused in bleach. In short, Athos hated it. 

Since d’Artagnan was holding it, he only disliked it. Strongly. 

“I, uh, heard that you burnt a scarf. So. Here.” And of course it was a gift. D’Artagnan handed it to Athos, who was currently wearing a dark green scarf that went rather well with the coffee shop uniform. He stared at the scarf, not quite believing that he had taken it in the first place, and held back a sigh.

Without saying anything, Athos took off his scarf, set it on the counter, and put on the one d’Artagnan had given him. At least it was soft. Athos wasn’t sure he could continue to be polite if it had been ugly and uncomfortable. 

D’Artagnan was fidgeting and kept glancing at Aramis, his eyes drawn back to Athos before he lost his nerve and looked away. “Thank you,” Athos told him, more or less earnest. Of course, that couldn’t be the end of it. That just wouldn’t do. “So you can’t return my actual scarves but you can buy me new ones?” He questioned, lips quirking up in the shadow of a smile. 

“Well the point of a hoard is to keep most of it in one place,” d’Artagnan replied immediately. It was hard to tell if he was joking or not. Athos couldn’t help but find it cute. Yes, cute. _Gods,_ Athos thought, _I’m turning into a love-sick succubus._ “Don’t worry, I’m keeping them safe and they’re even washed.” 

“I would feel better if I saw them every day,” Athos drawled. Aramis choked on air and that was when the phoenix realized what the other two, or at least his rather filthy-minded friend, thought he meant. “That is, if you returned them. Safe and in one piece, preferably.” 

“Well, you could always come over and visit,” d’Artagnan suggested. If it weren’t for the light blush on his face, Athos would have thought he wasn’t nervous at all. “After all, if you are going to Constance’s party, you could just come up to my apartment sometime during it or before it or whenever, really, I --” 

“You were doing well,” Athos interrupted, “If you just stopped speaking after inviting me over then you would have seemed intelligent.” He gave d’Artagnan a small smile and thought _what the hell._ “Are you ordering a lavender tea?” He asked. D’Artagnan blinked in surprise but nodded. 

Aramis watched, bemused, as Athos rung it up, applied the employee discount, and paid for it himself. When he handed the freshly brewed tea to d’Artagnan, the young man looked at the sides of the cup and snorted. He gave Athos a look and his amusement was only betrayed by the shining in his eyes. 

Athos handed d’Artagnan the green scarf. “It can keep the others company in your devil’s hoard.” There was a moment while d’Artagnan sorted through what Athos meant. The moment it clicked, the young man chuckled and took the scarf, winding it around his own neck. It looked ridiculous with his gray jacket and red mittens, but Athos thought it fit d’Artagnan perfectly. 

“What do you think?” D’Artagnan asked, half-teasing. Athos rolled his eyes.

“It looks horrible. Leave before I decide to claw my own eyes out,” he replied. D’Artagnan snorted again and turned to Aramis, who just held up his hands in the universal _I don’t know_ gesture. 

“Are you going to be at Constance’s party?” D’Artagnan changed the subject, shifting from side to side. Athos nodded, unsure of where this was going. “I really would like if you stopped by sometime before. Just to say hello if you’d like. I’d even make coffee for you.” D’Artagnan smiled and Athos felt his lips twitch. 

He swallowed down his fear and let himself smile. Aramis immediately covered his eyes. “Ah, it burns,” he wailed dramatically. Athos felt his smile slip and d’Artagnan reached across the counter to squeeze his shoulder. 

“I think it makes him look rather handsome,” the young man countered. Athos rolled his eyes and hoped that d’Artagnan could see the warmth in his eyes. “What do you say? My apartment, Thursday night, seven pm? Or do you work then?” Athos did, indeed, work then but he also had a plethora of sick days and vacation time. He could dig into those hours.

“I’ll take your shift,” Aramis offered before Athos could even ask. “You need time off, my friend. Relax, spend some time with someone you don’t see at work every day.”

There was more than a hint of truth to that, but Athos couldn’t help but chuckle. “By that standard, d’Artagnan would not count either.” D’Artagnan blushed but it was true; he came into the shop to the point where he was firmly in the category of regular. The other customers were starting to get used to him. 

“Can I get your number?” D’Artagnan asked, pulling his out. Athos nodded and they traded phones. “I’ll text you my exact address later. Thanks for the tea.” He left as soon as Athos had given him back his phone. 

The swell of coffee shop noise rolled over Aramis and Athos, the soft clatter of people on laptops or reading books the only sound breaking up the air conditioner rattling and the cars on the street zipping by. It wasn’t much, The Triple Three cafe and coffee shop, but it was more than just a place to work. Athos had met his closest, and only, friends there. And it seemed like he had met someone who might become more than a friend there too.

“So d’Artagnan seems eager,” Aramis commented. Athos raised an eyebrow at him. “What, did you expect me to say something else?” There didn’t need to be a reply, but Athos felt obliged to do so anyway.

“I thought you would mention his age,” he admitted. Aramis’ eyes widened and he shook his head.

“Why would I do that? He’s not that young.” Before Aramis could expand on that, a group of business harpies walked in, chattering about their next meeting and arguing over vague wordings in laws that hadn’t yet been passed. 

Athos sighed. He could get an answer later. 

“And the scarf doesn’t look that horrible on you,” Aramis mused as he manned the register. “It brings out the color of your eyes.” Athos wondered what he had done to be given friends like Aramis. Then he wondered what he had done to be given the opportunity to meet d’Artagnan and decided that something must have gone right. 

 

 

 

“It’s unlocked!” D’Artagnan shouted as Athos knocked on his door. The phoenix walked in and was immediately struck by how much _stuff_ there was. Not just typical things that might be expected, such as papers or glasses, but also stack after stack of books and what Athos, after a moment, realized was a pile of deflated beach balls. There was a small collection of throw pillows taking up an entire chair and Athos did a double-take as he walked past a pyramid made out of decks of cards, each placed on top of the other without a millimeter out of place. 

It was a complete mess of an apartment and Athos was surprised that there was room to walk around until he came to the conclusion that d’Artagnan had purposefully placed everything so that there were pathways. Certainly there was no space to explore, though there wasn’t much to see that wasn’t already obvious. The apartment was small and seemed even more so because of the clutter inside. 

Athos cut off a sarcastic remark as he found his way into the combined kitchen and dining room. D’Artagnan stood in the kitchen, dashing from stovetop to the sink to the counter and back again as he cooked. He was wearing a threadbare t-shirt with “Rawr I’m a dragon” on the front in big, block letters. Athos figured someone had given it to him as a joke; it was becoming increasingly clear how serious of a hoarding problem d’Artagnan had.

The dining room table had been cleared off, or at least Athos assumed so because it was the only clean surface in the entire place, and on top of the rather ugly tablecloth was a pile. This pile was made up of Athos’ scarves, each and every one of them carefully folded into a neat square. Even though the rest of the apartment was a haphazard mess, admittedly in a controlled sort of chaos, the table was nothing like that. 

It was obvious that d’Artagnan had put effort into the display and Athos couldn’t help but be confused and, yes, flattered. He hadn’t been certain this was a date but this definitely suggested that d’Artagnan saw him as more than just a friend. Then again, when had Athos ever seen the other man with someone who wasn’t him, Aramis, or Porthos? It was entirely possible that d’Artagnan acted this way with everyone.

“I didn’t know what to bring so I hope you like pound cake,” Athos said, setting the store-bought package on the table. He would have put it on a kitchen counter, but there was no room. Any space that wasn’t being occupied by food, dirty dishes, or clean dishes was taken up by more stuff. Athos counted three different kinds of salt shakers alone. 

D’Artagnan glanced over, eyes bright, lips pulled up in a grin. “I love pound cake and it’ll go great with some raspberry preserve I have left over.” A timer went off and he lunged towards the stove, turning the heat off and pulling a pot off. Athos stepped forward to protest before he even realized what he was doing, but it was obvious that d’Artagnan was unconcerned that his hands were wrapped around what had to be a hot steel handle. 

“I’m pretty good with heat,” d’Artagnan remarked with a thin smile. Athos forced himself to breathe and take another look at the young man. There was that slight blush in his cheeks, the gleam in his eyes, the way he seemed so relaxed in his home. It was not that he was ever particularly tense, but this was different. 

This was a different d’Artagnan and Athos wasn’t sure how he felt about it. 

D’Artagnan poured the contents of the pot over something in another container; Athos realized, rather belatedly, that it was full of pasta.

“I made a meat sauce with spaghetti and a salad,” d’Artagnan explained, grabbing a bowl that had two handles sticking out. He set that on the table along with plates, silverware, and smaller bowls. Absolutely none of it matched and Athos fought the urge to do something about it. “Hope you aren’t allergic to garlic. I must have used at least three cloves.” 

“I’m not a vampire,” Athos muttered, sitting down and eyeing the scarves. Was he supposed to grab them? Were they there to taunt him? “I didn’t realize you enjoyed cooking.” He withheld any compliments about the food itself until he ate it. Though it smelled delicious, Athos had spent enough time around Porthos to know that what one species found edible did not mean that others agreed. 

D’Artagnan sat across from him as soon as the last container was set down and water was poured for both of them. Athos wasn’t sure if d’Artagnan usually drank, but he appreciated that alcohol wasn’t offered. It was nice to avoid temptation for one night. 

“I love cooking,” d’Artagnan explained, not bothering to say any prayers as he began serving himself some salad. Athos, taking that as his queue to help himself, settled for taking a piece of bread and a good amount of pasta. “Back home there were a bunch of us and my mom sometimes needed a night off so I’d offer to make dinner.” 

“You have siblings?” Athos wondered if he had just forgotten about them or if d’Artagnan had failed to mention them before. It didn’t come as too much of a surprise. Most species, Athos had learned upon arriving at the city, had more than one child every couple centuries. 

Phoenixes were dying out for many reasons and one of them was their inability to reproduce very rapidly. When you lived for so long it just wasn’t that much of a priority to have children. Athos never regretted his decision not to try to mate with his now ex-wife, but he did occasionally wonder what his life would be like if he had children. That was rare, though. He had long since decided it was best not to think too hard about possibilities and alternate lives. No, it was much better to focus on the present.

“Four. Three sisters and a brother. I’m the oldest.” That also didn’t surprise Athos. “You?” For a moment, Athos considered lying. He wasn’t sure why, just that he was so used to not talking about his past life that telling the truth seemed… difficult. Uncomfortable, really, was a better word for it. But there was no logical reason to so Athos didn’t.

“I had a younger brother.” Athos hesitated. “He died.” D’Artagnan tensed and Athos wondered if he had just managed to ruin the entire night. A night which, he was quickly understanding, d’Artagnan had put a lot of effort into. “It’s in the past,” Athos quickly added, hoping that they could move on. “What brought you into the city?”

D’Artagnan adopted a rueful smile. “My father died. It was too hard to stay and my mother had the rest of the family to care for her, so I left.” He shrugged and chewed on his salad for a while. Athos was prepared to eat the rest of the meal in silence, unsure how to respond or even if he should, but he was glad when d’Artagnan spoke again. “I like it here. It’s very different from the country.”

“I’m glad,” Athos replied almost instantly. And he was; he was glad that d’Artagnan had moved into the apartments Constance owned, glad that they had met, glad that they were eating dinner in the aforementioned apartment. This was nice. Not like being with Anne had been nice. This was a different kind of nice, just like the sense of happiness Athos recognized was different. 

He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but he decided he didn’t need to. He could do soul-searching later. For now, he should try to enjoy himself.

“So why so much stuff?” Athos asked, waving a hand around. D’Artagnan blushed and mumbled something, but the salad in his mouth made it impossible to understand. “I didn’t quite catch that,” Athos half-teased, enjoying the pasta more than he let on. Later he could feed d’Artagnan’s ego a bit, but that could be after he got his scarves back. 

Athos was still telling himself this was just about the scarves. It couldn’t possibly be about something else. D’Artagnan would have mentioned if this was a date, right? He hadn’t, so obviously this was just a dinner between two friends. A home cooked, high-effort dinner. Yes. Definitely between friends.

“I’m, uh, a dragon.” Athos hadn’t expected that. He blinked once, twice, and then examined d’Artagnan’s face for any signs of a lie. As far as ways to tell people what creature you were, this certainly was not the most casual. Porthos had introduced himself as “Porthos the werewolf” upon first meeting Athos and Treville hardly had to say anything. But still, being told over dinner was hardly what Athos was used to. 

“Are you serious?” He found himself asking, disbelief bleeding into every word. D’Artagnan ducked his head and nodded, blushing furiously. “But -- you must -- _a dragon?_ ” 

“We aren’t that rare,” d’Artagnan muttered, pushing his food around. “My dad knew a few others. Said there were some in the city I could meet. They’re all really old though.” At that, Athos couldn’t help but laugh. D’Artagnan seemed offended. “I’m almost two hundred, I’m allowed to call people old.” 

“D’Artagnan, I am over two hundred years old. I’m a phoenix.” The two looked at one another, eyes meeting, and Athos realized two very important things.

One, d’Artagnan was not ridiculously young compared to him. He wasn’t interested in some twenty year old pixie or even a fifty year old hobbit. 

Two, d’Artagnan’s life expectancy was just as long as his. Hell, dragons were the only creatures who could reliably live to be over a thousand years old. Phoenixes? Their regenerations lasted three hundred, maybe four hundred years before they burst into flames and started the whole process over again. If anything, d’Artagnan might just live to be older than Athos. Or at least this current Athos. 

But importantly, Athos might not end up alone. 

“Oh my god, the hoarding -- your shirt -- it makes sense now.” Athos rubbed his temples. “I am never getting my scarves back, am I?” He wondered aloud. D’Artagnan gave him an almost apologetic smile. 

“I’ll make it up to you somehow?” He offered. Athos raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him. “Well, for one I can afford to buy you more. Uh, dragons. Gold. It’s not just a stereotype.” D’Artagnan seemed embarrassed and Athos wondered if he didn’t realize that phoenixes were just as bad with wealth. “And, uh, if there’s something else you want I can get that for you too?” It was such an innocent question that Athos almost felt bad for his response. Almost.

He leaned back a bit and looked at d’Artagnan through narrow eyes, peering past his dark eyelashes. Then, in a perfect deadpan: “I wouldn’t say no to seeing them more often, provided a good meal is also part of the visit.” He immediately sat back up, a small smirk on his face. D’Artagnan blushed but nodded, pushing the container of pasta towards Athos.

“Please, eat. I, uh, made a lot. I wasn’t sure how much you would want.” A moment passed and Athos, suddenly in as good a mood as he ever got, served himself more food. “I like you,” d’Artagnan blurted out as Athos took a bite. He coughed and almost choked as the sauce slipped down his throat, the noodles tangling and doing their best to block air from his lungs. “Ah shit,” d’Artagnan muttered, standing as Athos waved him away. 

The dragon came over anyway, handing Athos a glass of water and rubbing circles into his back. Deciding that any attempts at dignity were going to end poorly, Athos threw caution and decorum to the wind and chugged the entire thing of water before silently pouring more into his glass and finishing that too. He paused only to make sure that d’Artagnan wasn’t going to say anything else and cause him to start spluttering. 

After clearing his throat and breathing easy for a moment or two, Athos focused on d’Artagnan. “I like you too, d’Artagnan. You’re a good friend and equally good company, hoarding and shocking me half to death aside.” He knew, logically, that d’Artagnan had meant something much different, but his emotions screamed otherwise. There must be other reasons for d’Artagnan to reveal his species after cooking a large meal and inviting Athos over. Right?

Right?

“No, Athos, I… I like you in a romantic way. I don’t know how phoenixes do it, but I want to court you. I want to start hoarding your things and share meals and curl up watching Netflix and give you little gifts to show you my feelings.” D’Artagnan pulled away, almost turning in on himself as if he could make himself small enough to disappear. “I know I’m clumsy and rough and a bit of a mess, but if you give me a chance I’m sure --”

“You were doing well,” Athos interrupted, a small smile curling at his lips, “If you just stopped speaking after that first bit then you would have seemed intelligent.” There was silence while d’Artagnan processed his words, recognized them, and realized when he had last heard them. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to make proper sounds. “That’s a yes, d’Artagnan. I would enjoy… courting you. If you will accept the differences in phoenix courtship.”

D’Artagnan waved a hand. “I’m sure it can’t be that different.” Athos debated lying and making up ridiculous rituals, much like Aramis had tried to do to Porthos as a test. Knowing d’Artagnan, though, he would take it seriously and not just look up whether it was normal for phoenixes to make entire blankets out of feathers or send each other handwritten letters every day.

“There is a certain amount of… preening that must be done,” Athos admitted. “And showing off. But most of our instincts are rather mundane, thankfully.” He could tell that d’Artagnan was not all that convinced, though the dragon did sit back down in his own seat. “You’ll need to come to my apartment, sometime. And please clean yours a bit. There’s just so much… stuff.” Athos wondered if it was too soon to be asking for things but d’Artagnan just nodded.

“Yeah… I, uh, got a bit out of control when I realized I had a place of my own. And I wasn’t sure what to hoard at first, so I sort of. Well. Collected everything.” D’Artagnan laughed. “Now at least I have a target.” 

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” As if it wasn’t obvious already. D’Artagnan leaned over the table and, with his long arms, pulled Athos’ scarf from around his neck. The end dipped dangerously low and almost touched the pasta, but d’Artagnan grabbed it before it could. Athos couldn’t tell if that was on purpose or coincidental, but he was relieved. He hadn’t worn a nice scarf, assuming that he would lose it over the course of the night one way or another, but that didn’t mean he wanted it to be filthy.

“Your scarves, of course. Hoarding, it’s a dragon thing.” Athos looked at d’Artagnan’s shirt and thought about his apartment. There were things everywhere, random items with no use and some with much use lying around, all set in particular piles that seemed haphazard but, Athos had no doubt, were organized in a precise pattern. 

Athos thought about getting to know the person who kept all of these objects. Learning about why some piles were very apparent while others seemed almost hidden behind row after row of other items. Finding out why d’Artagnan had felt an attraction to him, Athos, a phoenix with a grumpy attitude and a love of coffee, books, and scarves. 

And maybe, just maybe, he could develop his love for one particular dragon.


End file.
